


War Room Entertainment

by Funkspiel



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Gaping, F/M, Fucking Machines, M/M, Magical Dildos, Mild Pet Play, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Piercings, Rape/Non-con Elements, Semi-Public Sex, Suggestion of Future Pet Play, coming dry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 03:04:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11221947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/pseuds/Funkspiel
Summary: He is bound in the middle of a long, ornate table – and not just any table, but the war room table at MACUSA, reserved for times of emergency and important dignitaries. Grindelwald has him trussed up like a grand pig for a winter’s feast. An apple in his mouth is all that’s missing, although he knows the maniac would much prefer to put something else in there to fill the space inside. His legs are pinned thigh to calf in an intricate network of ebony black belts – leather so soft it feels like butter, a gentle yet harsh contrast to the way the bindings make him ache. And to top it off, there’s a bar between his ankles and another between his knees, spreading him lewdly so that his dick and balls hang freely toward the table, the surface cold where it kisses his fragile skin. Cuffs that bind his wrists to his ankles, keeping him bent in half – face so close to the tabletop he could lick it if he stretched.





	War Room Entertainment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kallistob](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【翻译】War Room Entertainment战情室演出](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12050001) by [liangdeyu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liangdeyu/pseuds/liangdeyu)



> I need to do a final edit pass, but wanted to get this out there for Kallistob's birthday! Hope you enjoy it, friend. ღゝ◡╹)ノ♡

When Graves wakes, it’s slowly – loathly – a tiresome and uncomfortable affair. Despite his forced rest, his muscles ache and his bones creak and he feels spent. His skin is tight; hyper sensitized like summer air before a storm. He feels fit to burst, his heart a writhing and pounding thing in his chest hammering painfully against his ribs.

His knees hurt, hard wood biting up against them unkindly, and he blinks. Hard wood… his flat has no hard wood; all soft carpets and plush rugs. So he’s not in his home-turned-prison… he blinks, and when all the pieces fall into place in his mind, he stills.

He is bound in the middle of a long, ornate table – and not just any table, but the war room table at MACUSA, reserved for times of emergency and important dignitaries. The heat from his body fogs the ebony gloss immediately around his skin, and in its surface he can see his own reflection. He shivers and so badly wishes to look away, but his gaze is a haunting and captivating thing, and he can’t.

Grindelwald has him trussed up like a grand pig for a winter’s feast. An apple in his mouth is all that’s missing, although he knows the maniac would much prefer to put something else in there to fill the space inside. His legs are pinned thigh to calf in an intricate network of ebony black belts – leather so soft it feels like butter, a gentle yet harsh contrast to the way the bindings make him ache. And to top it off, there’s a bar between his ankles and another between his knees, spreading him lewdly so that his dick and balls hang freely toward the table, the surface cold where it kisses his fragile skin. Cuffs that bind his wrists to his ankles, keeping him bent in half – face so close to the tabletop he could lick it if he stretched.

He closes his eyes to take stock, to think, to plan his escape. He’s in MACUSA, sure, but Grindelwald wouldn’t make it that easy. He’s likely been silenced, there’s no use calling out. Perhaps he could trigger an alarm with his magic, if he just reaches out and – 

He lets loose a sharp and startled yelp when two icy pricks of metal suddenly make themselves known the moment he tries to use his magic, buried in his nipples.  He can’t see them firsthand, but he knows they’re there. Small, innocent piercings that make him ache – fresh, although healed no doubt by magic – and he blushes more than just a little when he feels them begin to warm and buzz to life against him, in him, drawing the little nubs tight and erect on his chest. Not stopping even though he already called back his magic. As though once activated, they wouldn’t stop. He releases another barb of magic, curious if activating them was all it caused, but the buzzing notches up a little higher, a little harder, and he whines and immediately fights to choke it down, horrified.

Ok, so it could get worse. He’d have to be careful – save his magic only for something that could help him escape, lest the buzzing worsen. He closes his eyes and tries to block it out, tried to focus, but--

“Now, now, no need to hold back, pet,” Grindelwald says from the end of the table, drawing Graves’ wide-eyed attention. He’s sitting in Picquery’s seat, his hands laced before his grin, and his eyes are twinkling that merry twinkle from behind the illusion of Graves’ face. “You won’t bother anyone from their work with your wanton keening – I’m the only one who can hear you.”

The room is empty, except for them. But it won’t be for much longer, if the meeting briefs sitting in front of each chair are anything to go by. And judging by the quantity of paper at the table, not only will it be a crowded meeting, but a long one too.

He intends to make Graves the centerpiece to the meeting designed to take down Grindelwald, and Graves is no stranger to the irony. He snorts, eyes cold, and finally snarls, “An awfully big risk you’re taking, all just to humiliate me. Is this truly wise?”

“Concerned for me already, darling? How sweet,” Grindelwald said, his voice a purr that sounds alien coming out in Graves’ stolen tenor, and Graves resists the urge to shiver. Instead he merely watches as Grindelwald stands and begins the long trek around the table to where he might reach Graves the easiest. “And here I thought you didn’t like me.”

“By all means, play your foolish game, Grindelwald. They’ll notice—“ the words die in his throat the moment Grindelwald gently flutters two fingers and the innocent little beads spearing his nipples suddenly throb – hot and buzzing and agitated. It takes everything in him not to give voice to the way it sends a current of need down his torso, deep through his gut, low between his legs. But he cannot close his mouth around the agonized, surprised ‘o’ of his lips, neck tight and straining as he tries to bear it.

It is worse than any Cruciatus Curse, because this cannot kill him. Grindelwald does not have to end it, lest his toy break. He can leave him there, on the brink, shivering apart for hours – muscles braced in pleasure as tightly and as surely as they would for pain – and Graves would never die.

And Grindelwald appears to have no intention of releasing him any time soon.

“Brace yourself, pet,” Grindelwald says, surprising him by his nearness as he suddenly appears at Graves’ side, sitting on the table. The hand he places at the back of Graves’ neck is terribly hot, the span of his own stolen palm swallowing his nape as it clenches and shakes him gently – once – as though to encourage him. “These,” he says and thumbs one nipple with his free hand, making Graves jerk however minutely within his bonds, “Are only the beginning.”

_Stop._

_You won’t get away with this._

_They’ll notice._

The words back up behind his teeth and build, but he cannot speak beneath the heady, constant purr of pleasure spearing his chest. He shakes his head and his hair - soft and free of pomade - conceals his eyes.

“Bowing already, director?” Grindelwald asks, and immediately Graves can’t help but raise his head and glare at him, lip beginning to redden where he bites it between his teeth. His nostrils are flared, thin and white and tight from the heaviness of his breathing – angry and short and controlled – and Grindelwald smiles. “There you are, good man. Do make a good show for me, won’t you? I do hate these dreadful meetings, after all, and you’re rather the reason why I have to attend them.”

“Let me go and you won’t have to bother,” Graves manages to say, just barely – but it’s stronger than he had feared it might sound, and he’s grateful for that.

Grindelwald chuckles, and the rage it ignites in Graves is a wide and hot line of agony blazing up his spine, prickling his skin.

“Cute,” he says, fingers cruel where they grab his chin and shake him. “Do try and hold onto that fight, pet. You’ll need it.”

And then the doors were opening, a loud cloud of chatter spilling into the room on the heels of MACUSA’s finest – Picquery at their head. Graves hopes that they will notice him, that they’ll see past whatever charm Grindelwald has no doubt lain down upon him, but they don’t. These brilliant witches and wizards, the finest of their time, merely continue to pour into the room without ever once looking at the spot Graves takes at the center of the table – the space no doubt blank and bland and innocent to their gaze.

One by one, they take their seats. Each of them absorbed in polite conversation even as their fingers thumb through documents about murder and genocide and danger across the sea. Only Picquery hesitates to claim her spot atop the table, her long legs bringing her to the place where Grindelwald has yet to move from at Graves’ side. She’s close, _so close_ , but even she does not see him – does not hear him – cannot save him.

“You’re early,” she says softly, beneath her breath. “That’s unlike you. Are you well?”

The question is sarcastic, but Graves wants to howl that _no, he most certainly is not well! He’s naked and bound and writhing atop a table surrounded by people who should be able to spot a genocidal maniac posing as America’s head of Magical Security!_

But he knows it’s useless. He saves his energy and he _thinks_ , because obviously after a week of opportunities to catch onto Graves’ absence, he cannot count on his colleagues to save him.

“Theseus Scamander is leading the charge on the Grindelwald investigation in the UK,” Grindelwald says with a small frown that makes Graves sick to his stomach because, _Jesus_ , he would say it just like that… “He’s a dear friend. If there’s any support that I can offer, I’m ready to provide.”

“Ah,” Picquery says with a nod, a hint of softness in her gaze, and squeezes his imposter’s shoulder like a brother. “Of course. Apologies, Percival.”

“You need never apologize, Sera,” Grindelwald says beneath his breath, as Graves would, and there’s a riot building in Graves spirit that he can’t quite quench. But he shoves that to the back of his mind while he can and clenches his jaw. He can survive this, and it serves as an excellent opportunity for intelligence gathering. He can focus past the buzzing that insists on derailing him. He can get over being naked in a room of his peers – it’s not like they can see him. He can handle this, he can—

He stills when he realizes that Picquery is not taking her seat at the top of the table – instead taking a chair directly to Graves’ right, just within his eye line. And to his left, another chair squeals across the hardwood as Grindelwald takes his seat across from her – thus absorbing the other side of Graves’ attention. Evidently they’ll be using a screen at the front of the room for most of the meeting – covered in magically enchanted maps and moving pictures and articles from their sister government across the sea. There’s a moment where he’s grateful that he won’t be staring Picquery in the eye whilst naked, bound and writhing. But there’s something unsettling about having her so near, yet so blind to him and his suffering.

He could reach out and touch her, if not for the bindings that held him. He could whisper and she’d hear him, if not for the charms that deafened her to him. How could she miss the gentle haze of illusion right in front of her face?

How could no one notice?

To his left, Graves could _feel_ the weight of his stolen smirk bearing down on him. Smile and heavier on one corner than the other. Wry and playful and knowing.

God, he was really starting to hate his own face.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” came a voice from the other end of the table. Rowley Jenkins, head of International Intelligence and Foreign Affairs. “As we are all aware, wizardkind across the sea is suffering from the depraved machinations of a madman. And it is because of that and the most recent string of magical acts of terrorism that just siezed London’s train system that we are meeting today.”

It was easy to ignore the buzzing in his nipples in favor of work. Easy to slip into his analytical mind – to focus on his life’s calling, the protection of the magical community both foreign and domestic. Easy to forget that he was bound like a pig on a plate in the middle of a table rather than sitting in a chair in his nicely tailored suit.

Easy, that was, until something made itself known behind him. Bound as he was, he couldn’t look back. Couldn’t wriggle away. Couldn’t avoid the soft, curved touch of something foreign and cold and strange pressing between his cheeks. Conjured suddenly from thin air, as though by magic. He could, however, glance left – eyes meeting a sharp and pointed gaze that seemed to say _don’t forget why I brought you here, pet._

As though Graves had been slacking off.

There’s a small smile, a gentle tumble of fingers against the table, and suddenly a gush erupts from inside Graves’ bowels – lube bubbling into existence and flooding him obscenely. He gasps, sharp, as it oozes from his asshole and slides down his balls, trailing down his dick and thighs to puddle onto the table below him.

Immediately, the pressure at his asshole lessens – his skin giving beneath the insistent press of something moving forward slowly, spreading his hole with far more ease than it should, and Graves writhes, magic flaring, only to force himself to calm when it merely made the piercings in his nipples ramp up that much harder.

“Wha-what are you--?” He loses the question on a grunt, just shy of a whimper, as the thing behind just keeps feeding into him – one long, slow line filling him more and more. And every time he thinks to himself _surely it can’t go farther_ , it does. Fills him until he’s certain he can feel it press into his thigh through the meat of his belly.

It sits in him, long and hard and heavy, for a long moment. Enough time for Graves to shake against the leather of his bonds and collect himself. And for a second, he thinks _I can bear this, too. I can bear this._ But the thoughts bleed through his fingers like sand the moment the length within him begins to pull back and he realizes with a lurch that this is no simple intrusion.

“No,” he manages to gasp as it slides out of him, tenting his skin lewdly as the rim of his asshole clutches as the toy – stretching around its flared head, the toy not quite popping free, but merely _pulling_. And then, in a rush, slamming back in. Jerking him forward, head nearly colliding with the table.

He can see the reflection of his open, overwhelmed mouth – occasionally obscured by the soft fog of his breath as it’s torn from him in sharp gasps. He can’t focus on the meeting, though he tries. He catches snippets of _Grindelwald_ and _another attack_ and _our brothers in the UK_ , but he can’t hear past the roaring in his ears.

Any time he thinks he’s got the hang of the strange thing’s rhythm, it changes on him. A new angle to better hit his prostate, a new speed to strike him off balance, a pregnant pause to keep him full and writhing or empty and taut around its head.

To make matters worse, he’s hard from the attention. Every time the thing inside him strikes his prostate just so, magic flares from his skin like a live wire – spurring the piercings in his nipples to dance anew with sharper vigor. His chest _aches_ , painfully charged from the buzzing, and he wishes he could press himself more fully against the table. That he could still the dreadful ornaments and cool his nipples. It’s all he can do just to press his forehead against the glossy top and bear it, eyes rolling with each shuddering flex forward, his hands writhing uselessly at his ankles. Nails scrabbling into his own skin. There’s precum trailing from his dick onto the table, scrawling senseless lines of need onto it’s expensive finish. But the slickness provides no friction for him to rut against, nothing to help him find release. He’s left to the merciless machinations of whatever Grindelwald has lodged inside him – left to come from that alone.

Conversation about war and national security and the state of the magical community rises up around him like a muted and humming blanket, and were he not so on edge from the constantly stimulation, he’d be caught by the thought that just one slip of magic on Grindelwald’s end and all these powerful people would _see him_. They’d see their Director of Magical Security on his knees atop the table where they plan, his legs strapped and useless, his hands bound. His hole open and pink and hot from stimulation, stretched thin around a girth he can’t fathom without seeing it. His mouth open against the gloss of the table, wet smears from his lips. Soft and fragile and writhing. Nipples glimmering like stars and skin quivering like a horse trying to shake a fly.

His gut it a tight and agonized knot above his groin, and he can’t thrust, can’t hump, can’t raise himself higher to further the pleasure and finally spill him over. He can do nothing but take it and hold on.

“Director Graves,” a colleague says. Deputy Director Isabelle Firenze from Foreign Affairs. “I know that you are a proponent of sending men to assist MOM with their investigation. Are you not concerned with leaving New York unprotected, should Grindelwald come?”

“The idea is that by sending men to the UK while Grindelwald is there, we stand more a chance of catching him than by allowing him to continue to expose our community whilst we wait for _if_ he comes to the United States. If the opportunity to catch the man is in London, then it seems the best place to put our people is in London. Hard to catch a criminal from across the sea, don’t you think?”

 _He’s here, he’s right here among you, you fucking fools_ , he wants to say – to scream it until Grindelwald’s magic can no longer contain his voice – but can’t manage more than an uncontrolled _ah, ah, ah_ that tumbles from his lips with each horrid pass of the dildo in his ass.

“Of course, director,” she says. “It’s just… the men and women you have listed in this mission briefing… to be quite blunt, they are the best that MACUSA has to offer. If you’re wrong, if you’re people fail, we’ll be left somewhat defenseless aside from the might of the people in this room.”

“Best though they might be, if they can’t get the job done overseas, it would hardly matter if they were here or not. They’re useless all the same. Regardless, I have complete faith in my team. Send them to Theseus Scamander and we will have that bastard behind bars within a fortnight.”

 _Don’t, don’t, don’t_ , he pleads. Don’t send all his best men away. God, the bastard is _here_. _He’s here!_

“And you do not wish to go with them?” Another man asks, his name lost beneath a groan when the dildo suddenly began to thrust again with renewed vigor, precum oozed in sharp bursts from his dick with each press to his prostate. Bleeding him like a fountain.

“As you said, if my men fail, we’ll need the might of this room to keep New York safe. As much as I would like to lead them, our community comes first.”

“He’s right, we need our director here. How would it look to the citizens that elected us if we sent the man they voted to protect them away to protect another country’s citizens before our own?” Picquery says, drawing the attention of the room. “Director Graves, I approve your team. How quickly can you move them?”

“By morning, if need be.”

“The need be indeed,” Picquery said, her hands pushing papers out around her so she might better see the full picture – one document sliding so close, it was merely halted by Graves’ leg. So close to discovery. So close to help.

If he could just move the papers. If he could just magically enchant the typewritten letters on their pages to convey a message to the president, he could…

He screams, his voice a rough howl that echoed in the chamber, but it meets no one – torn loose by the sudden vibration of the dildo in his ass, shaking and rumbling and breaking him apart. It presses hard against him, fully hilted, and just like that he’s coming – white streaks painting the black gloss of the table, and still no one could see him.

His orgasm burns him away, eyes rolled back, and as it slowly ebbs, the vibrating only continues.

“N-no, _no,_ ” he stammers, writhing with a renewed vigor that merely tightened his bond cruelly. He can’t hold back his shocked and exhausted pleading, his voice sharp and hoarse and thread – breaking on his strike against his hyper-sensitized prostate. He’s raw and electrified and dying. He feels fit to split apart at the seams, to shake until he’s dust, to fade away. His vision blackens at the edges, but a twirl of fingers drumming against paper catches his attention to his left and before he can say a word to stop it, his dick is suddenly hard and throbbing between the wet table and his belly once more. _Need_ burns behind his balls, and he’s keening because _not again, not again, not again_.

Slick squirts out from around the dildo as he tightens and writhes and bangs his head against the table. No one notices the vibrations from his struggles or the way the table shifts. No one hears him, no one sees him. In all his captivity, he’s never been closer to freedom – and yet so far away.

Tears, fat and hot and demanding, rise to frame his lower lashes and he finds he can’t hold them back. He can no more stop their fall than he can quell the fire in his belly. He comes again, and still the meeting goes on. And whenever he’s brave enough to look, he can’t help but twist with dread beneath Grindelwald’s hungry, lazy gaze – traveling over him between switching his gaze between the occupants of the meeting.

The dildo never stops. It fucks him through each orgasm until he’s ready to scream, and with each wilting recovery, Grindelwald merely compels him back to eager randiness. Over and over until his hole is a slack and fluttering thing around the hefty give of the dildo that’s ruined him.

Just when Graves thinks used to it, just when he can finally wrap his mind around the pleasure and actually think about escape – the dildo in his ass begins to grow, stretching him anew, pressing with merciless intensity into the fine ball of his prostate until he’s wailing, spit dribbling onto the table, mixing with his tears. His screams echo in the room, but no one hears him. He feels fit to shiver apart, each muscle whipcord tight as though bracing through electric currents rather than suffering the sensation of a fake dick ramming repeatedly up his ass. He knows each tendon is stark against his skin from the strain of his tensing. He knows the vein in his forehead is thumping and that the color in his face is rising and that he’s trembling like a leaf submitting to its last frost. And he knows Grindelwald is watching, the only seeing man in a room blinded to him. But he can’t swallow down his cries. He can’t cease his shivering. He can’t hide the way he’s started to come dry. He’s more exposed in this blind room than he’s ever been in his life. There’s nowhere to hide, except beneath the heady mask of Grindelwald’s illusion.

He doesn’t know how long the meeting continues that way. He’s lost to the whims of Grindelwald’s fingers and the hot stretch of the growing dildo and the buzz of the jewelry in his nipples. Lost until finally, all at once, it ceases.

His breath hitches, and he dares to hope. Dares to pray that whatever god or gods might exist, that maybe someone noticed. Maybe someone stopped Grindelwald and he’s been saved.

But when he opens his eyes, the witches and wizards that had been surrounding him are leaving – briefs in hand – until only Grindelwald and Picquery remain. He presses his cheek to the table top to cool it, too tired to be bothered by the wet touch of his own spend on his face because of it. Instead, he merely watches and sags into his bonds, too exhausted to do more the whine weakly on each exhale, too thread to hear. Soft like a whisper, broken like a promise.

“You did well. I thought I would have to veto the council’s decision, but you managed to convince most of them about sending your team. Well done,” he hears Picquery say from his right as she gathers her papers.

“Thank you, Madam President.”

“Seraphina when we’re in private, you know better than that,” she says.

“But we’re not in private?” Grindelwald counters, his tone soft and crooning in a way totally unlike Graves, and Graves can’t help but still – eyes growing, as he slowly turned to take Picquery in.

“He hardly counts, Gellert, who is he going to tell?” She asks in stride, and something in Graves belly clenches like water freezing too quickly in the sea. She meets his gaze, then, and in her eyes he sees nothing but cool and unrelenting blankness.

“Y-you,” Graves says, but it’s a hoarse, dry whisper that splits his lip. He licks them and swallows, but even so he’s shattered. “You knew.”

“How else do you think no one’s noticed, Percy,” She says – and the fingers that trail lovingly through his hair make him writhe. “Who better to teach him than how to be you than me? You fought him tooth and nail against revealing your memories like a good little dog, so I freely showed him mine. He’s quite good.”

“Thank you, Seraphina, you’re quite kind,” he says, preening, and Graves feels sick.

“The whole time, you… you just watched?”

“It was hard not to let on, but yes, pet, I watched,” she says, and hearing Grindelwald’s name for him tumble from her lips broke him in ways the last three hours never could. There’s tears in his eyes again as she moved to look behind him. He feels her fingers at his hole – the dildo pulling free with a muted pop – and then a suck of air in a place it’s never been before. He sobs into the table, once, low and broken. “You’re gaping so lovely, Percival. Such a good boy you are, you took it so well. You were right, Gellert, he did serve as stunning entertainment.”

“I told you he would.”

“You were right. And you were right about the council accepting your plan. I do believe I owe you a drink,” she said casually, as though commenting on the state of the weather rather than gently pulling and prodding at her bound friend’s gaping hole.

 _She’s under the Imperius Curse_ , Graves thinks _, or she’s another imposter._

Something, anything to stop the pain of betrayal freezing his spine. To stop the sinking realization that he’s well and truly fucked. That this would be his life, moving forward – pet to two monsters.

“I’d love to, Sera, but I do think it’s time I took our little pet home. He did such a lovely job, I do think he deserves a bit of a treat – don’t you?”

“Hmm,” she purrs, fingers gentle where they scratched at his scalp like she might a dog, and Graves tries not to see the gesture as a kindness, but after hours of agonizing pleasure and pain, it felt so nice. He closes his eyes and shivered – pressed his nose into the hard wood of the table and tried to hide. “A nice, hot bath. Food. Maybe he can even sleep at our feet tonight, tired as he is… Yes, I think he’s earned it.”

“Then I’ll take him home,” Grindelwald says, and with a snap of his fingers the leather laces fell from his skin like the flakes of a butterfly’s wings peeling apart. Instantly, Graves sagged into the table, and with a start he realized he was too exhausted to move, to fight, to flee. Hands brought him close to the clothes he once wore, and just like that, his opportunity for freedom was stolen as Grindelwald gathered him into his arms with disgusting gentleness.

“Sera, please,” he whimpers. _Please don’t let it be true. Please tell me this is a ruse. Please help me. I trusted you._

“Shush, pet,” Grindelwald says, lips against his forehead. “She’ll be home soon.”

“Be good for daddy, Percival,” she says with a sternness that makes Graves wilt, shocked and hopeless. And then they’re standing in Graves home-turned-prison once again, the bath tub already on and running, and Grindelwald’s words chasing him into the blank numbness of his mind.

“You did so well, pet. You did so well. And just think, when Sera and I succeed, we can do that again – only, we won’t need to hide you. Just think of all those eyes watching you writhe for them. You’ll be such a stunning centerpiece for the celebratory feast, my dear. Just wait.”

He doesn’t wait long.


End file.
